


something in water

by cobbvanth



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Heartbreak, Loss, major spoilers for The Mandalorian S2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Summary: You and Mando work through your grief together.
Relationships: Din Djarin x reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian x reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	something in water

How heartbreaking it is that the first time you see his face it is filled with grief. 

None of you move as the door quietly hisses shut behind the Jedi carrying your son. 

Even Moff stays silent. Whether borne in furied awe of what has just happened or because he knows that no scathing, sarcastic remark could ever hurt as badly as this, you don’t know, and you don’t care to find out. 

Your entire focus. All of it. Is on him. 

You don’t look at him, not fully, at least. Neither do the others. You suspect that even Bo has averted her gaze, but you can’t be sure. All you’re able to really discern is Din and his movements; the gradual, bone weary bend of his knees as he reaches for the helmet at his feet, the way he rises to his full height, tilts his chin forward, adjusts his hold on the visor, then lowers it down over his head - methodical, robotic. A movement done quietly a thousand times over never quite so laid bare as this.

You’re the closest to him. If you wanted, you could touch his shoulder. You could speak to him, whisper something, maybe even get him to look at you even though you both know that right now he’s more spirit than body, that he wouldn’t hear you; that your fingers would go through the armor, fall back to your side, filled only with the despair of a day you both knew was coming. 

The Child made his choice. Your purpose. Mando’s purpose. It had always been to save him from the start, to return him to his teachers, his family, his kind. It hadn’t been to get attached. Or to sing him lullabies. To feed him soup. Wipe his tears. Brush his teeth. Read him stories. It wasn’t to kiss him goodnight, mend his clothes, to rock him to sleep. It certainly hadn’t been to hold him back for any selfish reason. 

It hadn’t been to love him, either.

And yet. 

Maker, how easy he made it. 

Things return to focus the way bees wake up from smoke. Slowly, then one of them moves, and the rest - two, maybe three at a time - follow suit. Cara might have been the first. Or Fennec. Boba comes back, doesn’t ask for an explanation, and they drop your prisoner off somewhere. You had been more inclined to pay attention, to ease the burden of conscious thought from The Mandalorian’s shoulders, but Cara had done it for you - was the first to speak up, to step forward, to make decisions once the doors opened again. So you simply stood and tried as hard as you could to listen. Gideon would be dealt with, the darksaber and its political implications can wait. Fett will be returning to Tatooine with Fennec, off on their own business now that they’ve upheld their end of the deal. He and Mando talk. Cara approaches you, asks quietly. Is there a place you want to go? 

I don’t know, you tell her, depends on what Mando wants. 

Come back to Nevarro, we can figure it out. 

You try so hard to ignore the pity in her expression. 

Okay, you agree. Not once do you look at her head on, smiling weakly. That works. 

\- 

The Slave 1 lands at the outskirts of the city just before sundown. For a moment, you all sit and look out at it through the cockpit. Then Boba extinguishes the engine silently and you descend the ramp in similar stillness. Din and Boba speak again. Before parting, the older bounty hunter extends his gratitude for retrieving and returning the armor a last time, and wishes his younger counterpart good fortune in his future endeavors. He doesn’t question what those might be and the other Mandalorian doesn’t say. They clasp hands. You exchange a few words with Fennec. They leave. 

Cara guides you further into the port. 

The last rays of daylight spread lazily across volcanic rock and atop the cool, stone rooftops of buildings. Nearly just as you left it except void of its usual crowd given the hour, the streets near empty save for a few stragglers. You haven’t decided whether that is a comfort or not. To have your heartbreak so easily on display yet hidden among vendors and their clientele would make this strange, surreal walk both abating and distressing, you think. It’s easy to escape your autonomy in a crowd, to pretend for a little while that you’re someone else, but the need to perform is there, too, in case anyone happens to be looking. You wonder if it’s easier with the helmet. 

You’d look to Din for a cue if you thought he’d be able to give you one. 

She leads you to a squat building with a basement level tavern and rooms that can be rented for a handful of credits above. It isn’t anything spectacular or even that well accommodated - with a boarded up viewport and cracking stairs. It’s old fashioned and dusty, still in the process of being rebuilt, but you aren’t picky and there’s the scent of something cooking wafting up that alleviates any further distress that might come. You never have been, and it isn’t like you would be now. As long as the place is warm and has a bed you can sleep in, you’ll be comfortable enough. 

“Don’t worry about the payment.” Cara looks at you both from over her shoulder. “Rand owes me a few favors. I’ll make sure he lets this one slide.” She goes on to explain, descending the narrow steps into the cantina. 

You follow simply because you’re caught in the tide of her walking, sure that if she were further away the current of her assurances would no longer hit you. 

Cara leads you through the cantina and down a hallway that ends at a second set of stairs. As mentioned, at the top and a few paces back towards the wall is Rand behind the front desk. Wrinkled and scrunched with age, you met him briefly the last time you were on Nevarro. It ended up that you didn’t stay for more than twelves hours, but you had recognized him immediately as being a man as generous as he was old. A rare find, these days. 

“It’s always intimidating when the Marshal pays a visit, but I had not thought I’d be seeing that armor again. You three aren’t here for me, I hope.” The elderly man chuckles, looking at you behind large, thick rimmed glasses that make his eyes beady. 

You fight the urge to cringe and replace it with an uneasy smile as Din replies with a brief and far-away. “No.” 

Your friend quickly saves face. “That offer from before still on the table?” 

He must read the room because he nods solemnly and murmurs a quiet: “Of course.” 

Rand shuffles away. Neither of you say anything. You examine the lobby and the warmth it seems to exude despite its durasteel furnishings and stone flooring. It might just be that you’re tired. 

He returns with a singular key-card, holding it up in a knob knuckled hand. “Afraid there’s only a single room left. I hope that won’t be a problem. With rebuilding and the Imperials, I can’t-” 

It would have been before, but it isn’t now.

“It’s fine.” Din again, closer but still somewhere you can’t reach. 

“Good. Good.” The old man nods, extending it to Mando. “You should find everything you need inside, but if you don’t, I’ll be here.” 

“Thank you.” Is all he says and you thank him, too, watching the muddied reflection of your face in the back of The Mandalorian’s helmet as you follow him to your sleeping quarters. Cara remains at the desk, explaining with as little detail as she can what has happened to keep the octogenarian from bothering you with his curiosity and concern; not before telling you both to get some rest. 

You wait for him to get the door open. 

You step in. It shuts. 

And your resolve crumbles. 

You don’t - can’t - cry with any dignity. You can’t keep your chin up or your gaze level or stop your knees from buckling or your chest from aching. Even as you dig your fingernails into your palm to stop from collapsing, it’s impossible to hide your grief. The quarters are intimidating in their stillness, in their direct opposition to the storm seething in both your heads. It is dark, dimly lit with light of active volcanoes and homes nearby filtering in through the viewports, humming with electricity, so the first thing you do is apologize. 

You aren’t sure for what. You aren’t sure if it’s because it must be worse for him or if it’s because you’re sorry this has happened, sorry in general that there hadn’t been more time. He had Grogu before you did and you should be strong because he needs you to be. You shouldn’t be sobbing like a child in the entryway of a darkened room, desperately looking for something to hold onto, watching the beskar covering his shoulders shift in the shadows in front of you as he rolls his shoulders and tips his head back to the ceiling. 

Din turns around. He removes his helmet a second time. You don’t wonder about it - you don’t try to think that if you squinted you’d be able to make out the curve of his nose, the sharp cupid’s bow of his top lip, the deep brown of his eyes and the thick waves of hair that fall around his ears; features you tried not to commit to memory yet have anyway despite yourself. You don’t think about the meaning of it, trying to stifle your tears out of habit as he gets closer - what good are they anyway when every time they fall nothing changes - not that you’ve ever allowed yourself to cry in front of him before because that would mean shifting the dynamic a second time; asking more than he could possible give and potentially risking the danger of pushing him away. 

But when his forehead rests against your own all you can do is close your eyes and suck in a deep breath. 

“We’re alright.” His voice is rich with anguish, trying to convince you as much as he is himself. Your hands find his face and he lets you touch him. What an honor, you think. The obscurity protecting you both. 

Your thumbs brush away the wetness on his cheeks. His palms curl around your own, rough, gloveless. 

“We’re alright.” You echo. 

For now, you’ll choose to believe it.


End file.
